A short, tense struggle followed, then again Johnny was free.
Breathing hard, hair disheveled, face bloody, clothes torn, he backed away to allow his mind three more flashing thoughts: “What next? Fight or flee? How will it end?”
He would fight. The man might be the firebug. If he could but subdue and capture him, the prize was won. Besides, had not the man set upon him from ambush? Did he not deserve a drubbing?
Suddenly he felt a strong desire to see the man’s face. If he were the man he thought him, he would recognize him. The man’s back was to the moon. Johnny executed a flank movement, that the moon might give him a view of that face. Again he tripped and all but fell. One hand touched the ground. It rested for a second on half a brick. Should he seize the brick? It was a weapon! But he had always fought fair.
“No! No!” he breathed.
He had always fought fair. Little did he know of the ruthless warfare of the underworld, of those denizens of crime who seize any weapon, who strike any creature—even the defenseless and weak—whose creed is ruthlessness and cruelty, and who know neither honor nor pity.
Well had it been if Johnny had known, for hardly had his hand left the brick than another came crashing against his own head, sending him crumpling down like an empty sack.
Consciousness did not entirely desert him. He had lost the power to move, but could still hear, feel and think. He caught the heavy thud of the villain’s footsteps as he approached, felt his hot breath on his cheek, then saw him lift the very brick he himself, but ten seconds before, had rejected as a point of honor.
His thoughts ran rampant. All his past lay before him, all his hopes for the future. He had expected to die sometime, somewhere, but not like this, not alone on a island built up by dump carts and scows.
“No! No! Not here!”